


The Moments of Before

by AHM1121, MissyRivers



Series: The Moments of Before series [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Hawkeye (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Action, And whatever their throuple name would be, Avengers Tower, BDSM, Blow Jobs, Bottoming from the Top, Canon-Typical Violence, Civil-war only kinda happened, Clint Barton/OMC (brief), Cock Rings, Deaf Clint Barton, Dom Bucky Barnes, Dom Clint Barton, Dom/sub, Domestic Avengers, End of Infinity War? What end of Infinity War?, Endgame? I don't know her, F/M, Fingering, Flogging, Friendship, Happy Ending, Humor, I promise, I wrote the quarantine part pre-COVID so don't give me sass about that, Kink Negotiation, Love, M/M, Masturbation, Metal Arm Kink, Multi, Orgasm Control, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Polyamory, Quarantine, Romance, Rope Bondage, Semi-Public Sex, Slow Burn, Smut, Stucky - Freeform, Stucky+Clint, Sub Steve Rogers, Switch Bucky Barnes, Threesome - M/M/M, Throuple, Top Clint Barton, Yes it's another Tower fic, ah yes and a touch of angst, ameriwinterhawk - Freeform, because duh, everything after can fuck right off, just a smidge, still not your guide for how to BDSM so don't start with me, uhhh whatever Steve and Clint's ship name is, winterhawk - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-26 14:27:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30107367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AHM1121/pseuds/AHM1121, https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissyRivers/pseuds/MissyRivers
Summary: He didn’t mean for it to happen. Okay. That’s a complete lie, because Clint Barton has zero self control left and he knows it. But here’s the thing, when you fall for two guys in a matter of months, it’s confusing, painful, and erotic as hell. So, no, he can’t help it. He can’t help that he walked into their communal gym showers to a scene pulled straight from a bad porno.He can’t help that he glances down just as a sensuous mouth glides over the smooth wet planes of an adonis belt as a hand gently cups the strong jaw, guiding the sensations south.He can’t help the jolt in his stomach when those eyes lock on his once again, and he’s entangled within them, the knowing smile holds him in place for a burning three seconds before it’s replaced with another moan as the blonde head falls back against the tiles.He simply can’t help it.*_*_*_*Or: the journey of how Clint Barton fell for two super soldiers, but not at the same time… but definitely kind of at the same time... maybe?
Relationships: Bruce Banner/Natasha Romanov/Sam Wilson, Clint Barton/Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton, James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton/Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes/Natasha Romanov (past mention), James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Natasha Romanov/ Clint Barton (past), Pepper Potts/Tony Stark
Series: The Moments of Before series [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2215437
Comments: 11
Kudos: 38





	The Moments of Before

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! It's been a while hasn't it? I am SO excited to get to share this fic with you guys. It's been in the works for a year and a half (thanks pandemic) and dammit does it feel good to get this first chapter posted! Hope you enjoy! And, as always, the BIGGEST THANK YOU to [MissyRivers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissyRivers/pseuds/MissyRivers) for her unwavering friendship, support, and mad Beta skills at editing this beast of a fic. I think she's the only reason that this thing is even happening.

**Present Day**

He didn’t mean for it to happen. Okay. That’s a complete lie, because Clint Barton has zero self control left and he knows it. But here’s the thing, when you fall for two guys in a matter of months, it’s confusing, painful, and erotic as hell. So, no, he can’t help it. He can’t help that he walked into their communal gym showers to a scene pulled straight from a bad porno. Not when the bright blue eyes that lock onto his suddenly roll back a little and a moan rips from lips that are ruby red from being caught between teeth in an obvious failed attempt at staying quiet. He can’t help that he glances down just as a sensuous mouth glides over the smooth wet planes of an adonis belt as a hand gently cups the strong jaw, guiding the sensations south. He can’t help the jolt in his stomach when those eyes lock on his once again, and he’s entangled within them, the knowing smile holds him in place for a burning three seconds before it’s replaced with another moan as the blonde head falls back against the tiles. He uses the sound of the reverberating moan to back out of the showers, images of sky blue eyes lost within a storm smirking back at him burned into his mind. 

**(6.5 months before Present Day)**

“So, he’s back?” Clint asked from his place at the large glass table in the conference room on the… somethingth floor of the tower. He’d asked the room, but he stared at Steve. Steve, who had rubbed broad palms over his flushed face, then moved them to run through his disheveled hair, which stuck up haphazardly. The look was completely… not Steve. Steve typically had his hair slicked back, and his shirt tucked into primly ironed khakis that hugged his ass, which most of the people on the team made fun of him for. The Steve that sat before him was different. He wasn’t the Steve that left a month ago, the one who had caged Clint against Clint’s own counter and smiled up at him, a smile that promised so much more. This Steve was wearing a wrinkled white shirt, a look of pure guilt, and a goddamn rapidly fading hickey on his neck. 

Clint had no idea what he was doing. Obviously that was nothing new for him. He’d opened the door, which was his first mistake. His second mistake was falling. What dumbass fell in love with his colleague/co-worker/dude who was already in love with someone else (that particular someone else being the one who could physically pull Clint’s heart from his chest… literally. Just reach in and  _ yank! _ )? But, Steve had knocked, and Clint was stupid enough to open his door, thinking it was his Chinese food. And now, well now Steve sat across from him, and Clint hated himself. 

Which to be fair, was his own damn fault. 

“Yeah. We… we just got back this morning.” 

“And he’s… he’s okay?” Clint watched the way Steve took a breath before leaning back in his chair. His hair had gotten longer, missing his scheduled cut while he was in Wakanda, apparently. He wore it pushed back to curl behind his ears, streaked even more blonde from the sun, and it made his eyes way too blue for Clint’s comfort. Beauty, brawn, insufferable kindness, and a hickey. Cap had it all; a fact that Clint wouldn’t soon be forgetting.

“Yeah…” Steve nodded, and finally, fucking finally he made eye contact with Clint and gave him a wince that tried its best to be a smile, “we talked about,” Steve cleared his throat, and the little blush creeping up his neck told Clint exactly what they’d talked about before he decided to go with, “things… on the ride back. Shuri’s tests all came back normal, so now he’s… here.” 

He sounded a little shell-shocked, to be honest. Like a new normal he’d been chasing for years was finally being thrown into his lap and he had no idea what to do with it; Clint could relate, as his almost-normal was being ripped apart at the seams. 

What the fuck had he been thinking? 

In all honesty, Clint hadn’t been thinking. And maybe neither had Steve or Bucky. Or maybe they thought, and then hickied. He truly didn’t know. Clint supposed that in the grand scheme of things Bucky and Steve hadn't had much time together since the whole ‘Tony is gonna try to kill us, but then there are other Winter Soldiers, and now we’re all fighting and being locked up in a big prison at the bottom of the ocean (which was hell on Clint’s inner ear pressure, mind you) but then a truce happened and evidently we’re all good again’ moment. Bucky had been under for one hundred and fifty-two days while Shuri worked and now… now apparently he was back and apparently pressing his lips to a neck corded with muscle that screamed to be bitten. 

“Are you okay?” Nat asked from her place at the other side of the table, her heels kicked up into Sam’s lap, somehow mirroring the air of aloof and concern simultaneously. 

_ Obviously not, _ Clint thought to himself, but kept his mouth shut, choosing instead to watch every minute expression making its way across Steve’s face. He doesn’t give much away in the current moment, still waters or whatever… but Clint knows Steve. Maybe not as well as Bucky knows (knew?… knows…) Steve. But he knows enough… too much, even.

He knew that after leaving Bucky in Wakanda, Steve was a wreck. He knew because a month after Steve came back from Wakanda the first time around, Nat, Sam, Bruce, and Tony all left for another mission, a covert one that Steve couldn’t baseball-cap-and-sunglasses his way through (that's the thing about having the wingspan of a bald eagle and being the most noticeable bachelor in the world, you get recognized). Leaving Steve alone with his thoughts… and with Clint. Clint, who had decided the week prior to, in an act of sheer bravery (or stupidity if you asked Natasha), jump off a building and straight into a dumpster to save a cute little stray orange cat from falling off a balcony, leaving him with a broken wrist in two places and six weeks worth of being benched in a bright purple cast. He knew that this day set him up for ruin.

**(1 year before PD)**

He’d just ended the phone call for his Chinese delivery when a knock at his door had him wondering if the people at Ming Wok were really that good, or (more than likely) he was just really predictable with his typical Thursday night rendezvous with orange chicken and egg rolls.

Instead of his sodium filled indulgence he had found Steve Rogers standing on the other side of his door, staring at the ground, shoulders uncharacteristically hunched with his hands buried into the pockets of his black and gray striped pajama pants. 

It had been disorienting. 

Even though they were friends (you kinda had to be when you lived, worked, and saved the world together on a regular basis), Steve tended to gravitate more towards Sam or Nat for, well, everything involving matters of shoulder hunching. Certainly not Clint at 9 o'clock on a Thursday night. 

“Hey, man. You, uh- you good?” 

The nod he got in return wasn’t super convincing.

“Okay, Liar McLiarson, wanna come inside?”

Nodding again, Steve refused to meet Clint’s gaze, instead choosing to follow Clint in without a word. He placed himself in the corner of Clint’s couch, tucked his long legs against his chest and circled his arms around his shins, making all 6 feet-ish of himself impossibly small.

_ Aw, sad super soldier, no. _

Clint hesitated.  _ Should he get him a beer? No. Didn’t work for him. Call Thor? Certainly now was the time for an emergency trip to Earth with the good Asgardian hooch, right? Shit. Okay. Get it together, Barton. Do the thing, go with your gut. It’s only ever gotten you a bevy of broken bones and near death experiences.  _ He considered.  _ Better odds on a couch, though.  _ Gut instinct said closeness would help, so gut instinct was what he was gonna go with. 

After a beat of silence, Clint eased himself onto the couch, taking up the cushion next to Steve’s unabashedly. _ If you’re gonna comfort someone you gotta be close, right? What if he needed a tissue?  _ The little voice in the back of his brain kindly reminded him that he’d never bought a box of tissues in his life. Not helpful at all, really. 

“You, uh… wanna talk about it?”

Instead of a reply Steve tucked his forehead against his knees and let out a shaky breath. 

“Alright.” He knew about not wanting to talk and not wanting anyone to push. Maybe close was a bad idea. Thinking Steve would need some space and considering his lack of tissues, Clint began to scooch to the other side of the couch when a cool hand wrapped around his wrist. Steve didn’t look up, his face remained hidden against his legs, but the hand that caught Clint’s more than effectively kept him by Steve’s side. The brush of Steve’s fingers were firm as they laced in between Clint’s, and knowing comfort and care, Clint gave a little half smile that Steve couldn’t see. “Alright.” 

He settled himself back into the couch, kicked his feet up onto the coffee table and pressed play, letting the sounds of the The Great British Baking Show fill the silence. 

It took him a solid thirty seconds to realize that Steve hadn’t let go of his hand; his fingers were now being held tightly within the super soldier’s grasp. Clinging. 

Slowly Clint brushed his thumb over Steve’s. Taking the beat of silence filled with the whirl of a cake mixer on the TV as proof that maybe he’d made a mistake, but then Steve’s body relaxed further and a heavy sigh released from his body before he shoved himself, much like a cat, into Clint’s slide. Pressing his cheek against Clint’s shoulder, his legs maneuvered over Clint’s thigh and halfway into his lap. 

Every thought whirling in Clint’s head hurtled to an abrupt stop, especially as Clint felt a drop of something damp slide past his ratty grey shirt sleeve and down his bicep. Without thinking, again all thanks to that pesky gut feeling of his making him do probably dumbass things, he placed his arm around Steve’s shoulders and pulled him fully into his chest and more into his lap than not. Maybe the move was abrupt, but Clint couldn’t do crying, crying meant pain and certain types of pain broke Clint. 

“It’s alright,” he soothed, as Steve wedged himself farther under Clint’s chin, a swallowed sob tried to wrench itself from his throat. “Whatever it is, Steve, we - we can fix it.” 

His arm tightened as Steve’s hand bunched into the material of his shirt, pulling Clint closer while the tears continued to roll. It would have been comical had there not been tears involved, with how broad Steve was and how small he was making himself in order to fit into Clint’s embrace. 

The show played on in the background as Steve continued to hold back muffled sobs that shook his body as he stubbornly refused to voice them, causing Clint to ache for the ability to do more. For ten minutes that’s what they did; Clint spoke a soft litany of soothing words while pressing his cheek to Steve’s hair.

“It’s gonna be okay, Steve,” he kept saying, not really knowing if this was something he could fix. Why why why had he said that? Looking back, it was definitely something he could not fix.

“He’s gone.” Steve moved, shifting to bury his head into the crook of Clint’s neck, still refusing to look at him. _ Did him and Sam do this? Was this normal? _ Clint wondered.  _ Did anyone have a manual detailing how to deal with having a sad super soldier who typically had enough righteous fury to take down a government, cradled in your arms? _ Cause Clint could’ve used one in that moment. 

“Who’s gone, Steve?” Clint asked, more than a little confused, he moved his hand (the one sans cast) to run his fingers through Steve’s hair in a gesture he hoped would soothe Steve as much as it soothed Clint to do it.

“Bucky,” he murmured the name with a sigh that ghosted along Clint’s neck. 

“Oh.” _ Good response, Clint. Grade A. Top-fucking-notch. Why don’t they teach this shit in spy school? _ “He’ll be back,” he assured.  _ Better, getting better _ . “You just gotta trust Shuri, she’s even smarter than Stark, she’ll figure it all out and he'll be back before you know it.”  _ Phew. Nailed it _ . However it didn’t stop Clint from counting Steve's every breath as it coasted over his skin. 

_ Really not the time, Barton _ .

“I just…” Steve hesitated. 

“You just…”

“He’s… we are - we were… together… but that was a long time ago and I thought - but now… now I don’t know,” Steve finished, the tips of his ears had gone bright pink and he covered his face with his hands.

_ Oh. _ “Oh.” Clint blew out his own breath. “That’s tough, man.”  _ Christ. Someone please get the warm gay/bi/pan/who-the-fuck-knows puppy out of my lap before I do something stupid _ . 

“He’s not going to remember, it was so long ago,” Steve murmured, voice muffled by his palms.

Clint couldn’t help the small laugh at the sheer absurdity within the statement that bubbled out of him before he could catch it. “I seriously doubt that, Steve.”

“Why?” Pulling back, he peered up at Clint. The pink around his eyes from crying only made them more blue, and something deep in Clint’s gut had twisted at the rare show of vulnerability. Steve and him didn’t do this. Clint barely even did this with Nat (and really it had only happened once, and only because they’d thought they were both going to die at any moment. Fucking Budapest). The look had Clint questioning why he couldn't have just gone on the mission with a broken wrist and not been left to stare at a pretty man crying over another man. What did he do that was bad enough to deserve it?! (That was a rhetorical question… obviously… again, fucking Budapest) 

Instead of pushing the man out of his lap and running for the hills like the coward he knew he was, he’d instead given him a small half smile. He resisted the urge to stroke his thumb over his cheek as he said, “I don’t know if you realize this, but you’re pretty unforgettable, Cap.” 

Steve’s blush was bright, a sudden smattering of pink across his cheeks at the remark, which was just too romantic.  _ The dude is crying over the guy that he loved who is now basically chillin’ in an ice box while a teenager works on his brain… show some tact, Barton _ .

Silence had followed and yet Steve hadn’t made any attempt to move; still half sitting in Clint’s lap, his fingers, which had moved back to intertwine with the hem of Clint’s shirt, remained where they were.

“Thank you,” he’d murmured softly, looking up at Clint. 

“Of course.” Clint was just about to do something stupid, disastrously stupid… like ‘there’s a vulnerable hot person who fell into his lap and he wanted to make them feel better and kissing makes everything better’ levels of stupid, but an announcement from JARVIS rang out instead, causing the two to flinch apart.

“Pardon me, Mr. Barton, your food has been delivered and is outside your door.”

“Oh.” Clint nodded to the ceiling. “Awesome, thanks, Jarv.” 

“God - I - I didn’t even think -” Steve stammered, suddenly standing, his face flamed red. “I just barged in and interrupted - I’m sorry, Clint.”

Thankfully whatever spell that’d been holding them in limbo had broken and Clint was able to think like an adult, a responsible adult, who was friends with Captain America, and who was capable of not doing stupid life-altering potential mistakes… occasionally. 

“You interrupted orange chicken, egg rolls, and The Great British Baking Show,” Clint laughed, walking around Steve to the door to pull in the brown bag of food. “Plus, I ordered enough to feed me for at least four days, so there should be enough to sustain even your metabolism for at least a few hours, grab a plate and a beer, and you can cry on my couch later, if you want.”

That night Steve left around two o’clock in the morning. Clint had accidentally woken him after he’d spent a solid hour curled into Clint’s side, face nuzzled into Clint’s chest. His breathing had gone soft as Clint dragged his fingers up and down his back, drawing light patterns, helping him drift off. It gave Clint too much time to think; at one point he paused the show and simply watched, which was exactly as weird as it sounded. But, he’d never truly seen Cap relax; he was always ordering people around and saving the world. Vulnerable-Steve with eyelashes for days, mouth not pressed into a stubborn frown, was such a juxtaposition to what he’d previously known for the past two years. 

Not to mention that most of the guys he typically held in his lap were significantly smaller, and didn’t go to work with him to solve the world’s biggest threats. 

When his own eyes started to droop he shifted, head nodding a little too hard and jolting then both awake. 

“Whatimezit?” Steve asked, pushing himself off Clint’s body and looking around the room, his hair stuck up on one side, and Clint had to shake the urge to smooth it.

“Probably two-ish,” Clint grunted, stretching his arms wide with a yawn.

“I should go.” Standing suddenly, a familiar frown etched itself over his brows, his guard pulled back to the forefront. “I, uh, I really should go.”

“You should do whatever you need to do,” Clint countered. “You can stay here if you want.” He shrugged, feigning indifference. “Whatever you need, man.” 

“I…” Steve hesitated, and Clint shouldn’t have been paying enough attention to see Steve’s eyes flicker down the hall to where his bedroom was, and then back to Clint, a light blush playing along his cheeks. “I, um… wake up early to run.” 

“Yeesh.” 

Even as Clint was walking beside him to the door, his hand turning the knob, he found his arms were once again full of Steve Rogers, and he didn’t really know he was taller than Steve up until that very moment, maybe only by one or two inches, but it still struck him having never noticed before. 

“Thank you, Clint,” Steve mumbled near his ear, and it wasn’t lost on Clint how Steve’s lips had barely brushed his earlobe; whether on accident or on purpose, it burned a hole in him that made his cheeks heat as he moved back. 

Shoving his hands into his pockets, Clint rocked back onto his heels. 

“Whatever you need, Steve,” he promised again.

And that is how Clint knew that Steve Rogers was a mess. Because for six weeks straight, even after the rest of the team had finally come back, at various times in the night Clint would be greeted by a sad Steve standing outside his door, unable to voice his needs. And every night, for those six weeks, he sat pressed along Clint’s side. No longer needing to say what was bothering him, just sitting and doing whatever Clint had been doing.

The nights eventually passed by in simplicity and with Steve pressed against his side Clint began to realize just how touch starved he’d become. Years of being an assassin-turned-spy-turned-Avenger led to few opportunities for friends, let alone romantic partners ( _ did Nat count as a romantic partner? She’d probably kick him in the balls if that’s the label he went with _ ), and even if and when romantic partners were an option his tastes were… well… sometimes they limited his ability to find the right one ( _ cue a five month long stint with a certain Widow that ended in a resolve for partners in spy/ridiculously close friendship only _ ). The ones he did find never stayed over or never left the club, and their numbers, typed into his burner phone, were always deleted the next day while he sucked down his first cup of coffee under Kate’s only mildly judgemental stare. 

Instead of finding himself scratching the itch at the occasional club like he normally would, Clint sat on the couch next to Steve, an arm casually thrown over his shoulders on nights where he wasn’t too keyed up. The gesture seemed friendly enough, as Steve watched T.V. and snacked on Clint’s endless supply of various chips he kept on hand, he’d push himself into Clint’s space, without permission or apology. 

Other nights, the nights where Steve would tuck himself into the corner of Clint’s couch, Clint would gently coax him out with a steadying hand on the back of his neck applying just enough pressure for Steve’s shoulders to release with a sigh. He’d learned long ago just how much a little bit of control freely given could help someone come down from thoughts that ran unchecked. 

His mind only raced once or twice when Steve would bring himself closer than their established norm. When his head would settle into the crook of Clint’s neck, his breath warm and damp coming out in even little waves as he drifted off to sleep, Clint’s heart would do a double take, stuttering in its rhythm all while he hoped Steve was asleep enough to not notice. It seemed remarkably easy for Steve to settle into this new normal, and it almost baffled Clint that it wasn’t as complicated as it could have - actually  _ should have _ been. It had definitely eased something open between the two. Something that was past the point of friendship, but walking a fine line that neither would allow to become anything else. 

**(10 months before PD)**

The first time it happened, they’d both been in their respective spots; Steve sitting on the couch, inches away from Clint with his legs splayed enough so that their knees brushed companionably. Clint had one arm slung over the back of the couch, his other held a slice of pizza, while he stared at the T.V. without taking in a single word the host of the game show was saying. 

Clint’s knee was bouncing like crazy. He’d literally just come back from running to grab pizza from the little shop a few blocks down that favored him with extra garlic knots, but he couldn’t seem to settle. The cushion of his beat up leather couch was too squishy, and too much nagged at the back of his mind. From the corner of his eye, he shot glances at Steve, who either didn’t notice or pretended not to from his place next to him. 

Finally the silence broke as Steve huffed out a little laugh and poked Clint in his ribs. 

“Antsy much?” he mused, shooting Clint a knowing smirk, as if he had figured out every thought going through Clint’s head.

Which would be awful because Clint was thinking about sex, and how long it’d been since he’d had sex, and typically he would just  _ go out _ and have sex. But now he had a - a friend in his apartment five nights a week, and he was being a good friend, but his friend was fucking hot, and enjoyed touch, and  _ god _ Clint either needed there to be an alien invasion or something to get his adrenaline up, or to fuck someone so hard they cried. 

“Yeah just… just itchy. Ya know?” Taking another bite, Clint stared at the screen and willed himself to focus. Steve was his friend, his friend who was hurting, and Clint? Clint needed to control his damn urges. He wasn’t a teenager for Christsakes, he was just a man who hadn’t had sex in a while. That was all. 

“Yeah. I get it.” His tone was light, but when he shifted to sitting up his body pressed into Clint’s for a millisecond too long. Letting out a little sigh he asked, “wanna scratch the itch?” 

Turning his head around so fast he nearly got whiplash, Clint stared at Steve. Once the room stopped spinning, his brain finally caught up enough to recognize that Steve was not asking for a perverted “scratch the itch.” Which,  _ duh _ , of course he wasn’t. Steve loved a frozen guy who was very far away from here, and Clint needed to get his damn mind -

Well. His damn mind had gone delightfully blank as Steve stared back at him, a quizzical expression on his face, before his eyes glanced down to focus on Clint’s lips. Steve licked at his own lips, eyes locked on Clint’s mouth, and Clint’s brain fizzled. Blue-screen of death. Pure static mode.   
  
_ What the fuck _ …

"You’ve got…” Steve reached towards Clint, and Clint felt paralyzed _ , what the hell is happening,  _ unable to understand the reason behind the hand coming slowly closer. Steve’s thumb gently brushed across his bottom lip from near the corner and away,  _ there’s no way his skin is that hot, not even a super soldier could run that warm, it’s all in your head, Barton, I repeat what the hell…  _ “pizza sauce.” Steve showed the smear to Clint with a little grin, and Clint nearly choked on his own tongue when Steve popped the digit into his own mouth without losing his knowing smile.

Clint stood before he did something disastrous, like tackling Steve and seeing if the sauce tasted just as good on his mouth as it did on the pizza. “Right. So.” Forcing his hands into his pockets he looked anywhere but at Steve. “I, uh-”

“Are you okay?” Steve asked, a little amused, but with a tinge of confusion.

“Yup. Great. Fine. Perfect. Itchy. Just itchy. Let’s, uh… I gotta… can we just get outta here for a while?” Clint asked, nearly tripping over his coffee table as he made his way to his boots that he’d left by the door. 

“Sure.” Steve stood and shrugged, following Clint to the door to slip on his own shoes. “Have anything in mind?” he eventually asked.

Clint pondered, which was really him trying to get his brain back to some semblance of working order that didn’t involve Steve’s lips and Clint’s mouth, before he asked, “ever done parkour at 2 o’clock in the morning?”

“I, uh… can’t say that I have,” Steve answered in weary hesitation.

“It’s fun. Not safe, but definitely fun,” Clint promised.

With a snort and a ‘do I have any other choice?’ shrug of his shoulders Steve nodded, “if you say so.”

“C’mon. You’ll love it.”

Steve, in fact, did not love it. He heard Steve give an audible scoff as he watched Clint step on the ledge of a building while he eyed the 10 foot drop and the 6 foot gap in-between the cement roofs. 

“Clint. Clint, you can’t be fucking serious,” Steve had growled, his tone dangerous and doing more for the itch than Clint cared to admit.

“Language, Steve. Jeez. Isn’t Shamptain Shamerica supposed to be some kinda saint or something?” Looking down, he smiled at the threat. His poor knees. But fuck it. He could use the jolt in his belly. Anything to take away the bit of anxious need crawling along his spine.

“Clint, wait!” Clint paused before his jump and turned. Steve had his Captain America Disapproves face in full effect, but he looked ready to pounce, as if to catch Clint if he were to slip. “You are… breakable, you know.”

“Aw, c’mon, Steve, it hasn’t killed me yet.” Clint winked before turning and leaping into the void. He didn’t have a plan, sometimes it just wasn’t necessary. After all, he never missed. It was almost too easy to free fall a bit and land precariously on the metal beam joining the two buildings, which he proceeded to expertly walk across (thanks, circus) before scaling up the side of the red brick, only shocking one lady who was apparently doing some late night P90X in her apartment.

Climbing up and over the ledge, he sent Steve a shit-eating grin. “C’mon, Steve, live a little!” he shouted.

What he wasn’t expecting, was for Steve to back abruptly away from the ledge, going completely out of sight, and Clint had about 10 solid seconds of wondering if he’d actually pissed Steve off with his little circus routine before he saw Steve take a running leap off the edge, totally by-passing the void between the buildings to land in a roll atop the roof directly beside him.

“Shit,” Steve hissed, rubbing at his shoulder as he stood. His hair, Clint noticed, had broken out of its meticulous form, and Steve brushed the loose strands out of his face irritably. 

“Okay, speaking of breakable.” Clint rolled his eyes and hooked his finger under Steve’s sleeve to pull it up, revealing the rash of skin left on the building roof, already beginning to produce fat drops of blood. “You dumbass. Had to go and show off by scaling the whole gap, huh?” 

Laughing, Steve brushed Clint’s hand away before eyeing the damage. “It’ll heal, and at least this time there wasn’t a fire under me.”

“I -” Clint shook his head. “Seriously, Steve. The shit you get into.”

“Nazi’s, man,” Steve explained, “they’re the worst.”

“Oh good, a story from ye olden days.” Clint smiled at Steve and nudged him. “I can hardly wait. Tell me more about the great depression, Pa, since I failed every history class I ever took.”

As time went on, Clint thought of more and more outrageous things for them to do together. Anything to get them outside of the Tower and into the crisp fall air. Leery of it at first, Steve had whined, kinda like a child, about not wanting to be recognized and yadda-yadda. Clint, however, tended to just roll his eyes and tug him out of the Tower’s doors.

“C’mon grandpa, it’s ass-o’clock in the morning. Anyone noticing you is gonna be drunk or high and won’t remember it anyway.” 

Clint learned pretty quickly that the whole Captain America “man with a righteous plan” facade was pretty nill when it came to Steve Rogers outside of work (the devious little shit). Which is how he found himself being one upped to do more and more stupid yet intriguingly dumbass things at weird hours of the night.

This was also how he ended up standing at the base of good ol’ Lady Liberty herself at 5:45 a.m. with a coffee in one hand and an apple fritter in the other. The sounds of passing ferry boats and distant traffic filled the air as people started their early morning commutes.

“So let me get this straight, you… you want us to race to see who can get up her the fastest?” Clint asked in disbelief.

“Yeah.” 

“And you did what to the security guard?”

“Paid him $100 and agreed to attend his niece’s birthday party in a month.” Steve shrugged, guzzling his own pumpkin spice latte and shoving the rest of the red white and blue sprinkled old fashioned cake donut in his mouth. 

“You do realize that I’m not superhuman, right? And that we’re probably gonna be arrested,” Clint countered. Even as he finished off his own coffee, the thrill of a dare raced up his spine. “And you just want me to razzle-dazzle my ass up all 305 feet of the green lady and ruin my upstanding all-American-boy reputation?”

“I mean…” Steve leaned against the base, giving Clint a devious little smirk that really meant ‘I’m about to dare you and I know you well enough to know that you can’t resist a dare’, “if you’re too scared to climb up a measly 20 stories…” his voice trailed off.

“What do I get if I win?”

“Bragging rights at beating Captain America at a challenge,” Steve prattled off without a second thought. 

“You realized you’re the one who told me I was breakable, right? I mean, if I fall, I die. ”

“Then I won't let you fall,” Steve countered, in a tone that was more  _ “duh” _ than it was comforting. 

“Aw, you gonna catch the dainty little damsel in distress, Steve?”

“Ain’t nothing dainty about you, Barton, but if you’re saying that you’re gonna swoon for me…” Steve trailed off.

“Fuck all the way off, Rogers.” Squaring his shoulders and popping his neck he nodded toward the statue, “alright, fine, let’s do this.”

“First one to her boob gets bragging rights,” Steve called out, already jumping up onto the base and reaching down to pull Clint up in an impressive single-armed row that had every line of muscle running up his arm flexing.

_ Wait, did Steve really just say ‘boob’? And why do I feel like I’m 14 and confused again? _ Clint asked himself.

Their little excursion up The Statue of Liberty had lasted all of twenty minutes. They both raced up the large stone base with relative ease as the holes and ragged terrain of the stones led to more spots to grip and press off. The hard part was the dress. Getting in between the hard folds of the green metal meant having to spread their legs and arms wide to keep themselves propelling upward. It felt ridiculous. Clint was rather proud of himself for a.) not dying within the first 100 feet of the climb, and b.) watching American Ninja Warrior enough to know the moves to keep going up an almost perfectly vertical plane. 

By the time they reached the robust… well… bust of the green lady they were both out of breath and snort-laughing while sitting along the narrow strip laid out by the sash across the statue’s shoulder. 

“Oh God.” With his hand slapping over his side Clint groaned and leaned his head back, wincing as the movement sent a shooting pain to his ribs. “Stitch. Ow ow ow.” Clint eyed Steve, who had already regained his breath and was simply staring out across the bay, cheeks still flushed as he grinned like a mad man. “Remind me never to race a super soldier up Lady Liberty again.” (Except that he’d do it every day of the week if it meant that Steve’s blinding grin could replace the image of him curled on Clint’s couch with tear-stained cheeks while pressed against Clint’s side.)

“Aw, now don’t tell me you didn’t have fun. Plus, where else can you get a view like that?” Steve pointed out to where the sun was just beginning to spear its multicolor rays through the New York City skyline.

“Literally from my living room,” Clint grumbled even as he felt himself slip a little along the slope. “Oh, futz.” His hands slammed onto the edge causing his knuckles to go white and he hurriedly prattled off - “If I die, make sure Nat and Kate get equal visitation rights to Lucky. He doesn’t like staying in Bed Stuy for too long, and his favorite wontons are the legit ones from the corner place in Chinatown!” 

“Quit being so dramatic,” Steve laughed, scooting his body towards Clint’s until their sides touched, the warmth radiating off of Steve seeping its way through Clint’s henley.  _ Okay. That’s fine. Everything’s fine _ . He thought to himself, until he felt Steve’s arm snake behind him to grip his waist. _ Not fine. Perfect. But definitely NOT FINE. _ “There. Now you won't fall. Feel better, princess?”

“What if we both fall?” Clint asked, kinda pathetically. 

“We won’t, plus the police are on their way.”

“What!? Wait. Do we need to get down? Shit… how do you even know they are coming? How do we even get down? Oh God, we’re not going to jump, are we? ‘Cause my knees can barely handle me giving -”

“One. You are the most dramatic human I’ve ever met. Two. I can hear the helicopters. Three. Don’t worry, they’ll get us down,” Steve promised, giving Clint’s side a little brush with his thumb and making Clint too dizzy to be sitting close to 300 feet in the air with the most recognized person in history.

“Fucking hearing aids,” Clint groaned, rolling his eyes, he tapped the volume up before he caught the white noise from the wind, and promptly turned them back down with a wince.

“Nah. Just super soldier hearing. Give ‘em a minute,” Steve encouraged. 

A few minutes of joking and goofing off passed, the ease which Steve showed while sitting up high bathed in the morning sun without the weight of the world resting on his shoulders was an image that Clint would come to cherish. Just as he was on the right track to overthinking everything, a black helicopter appeared in the distance. It would be a while yet until the noise would register for Clint, but the bold yellow “NYPD” stamped on its side was glaringly obvious.

A few hours, two mug shots, and autographs for all the booking agents and officers on call later, Steve and Clint sat across from each other in a jail cell laughing and joking about the whole ordeal when the resounding click-clack of dress shoes rang out down the jail’s tiled halls.

“If you wanted to defile a national icon,” Tony said as he rounded the corner, an officer following closely behind, “groping Liberty was definitely the way to go.”

With the bars unlocked and sliding over to reveal their freedom, Steve stood and put his hand down to capture Clint’s, hauling him up with an effortless tug.

“Totally worth it,” Clint said, patting Tony on the back. “Thanks for breaking us out of the joint by the way, and before lunch. Are we near that panini shop?”

“Are you shittin’ me? The mayor wants your heads on silver platters and you’re thinking about paninis. Also, congrats on breaking Instagram with your selfies. You didn’t tag her with anything scandalous, did you? Just something silly like “for a good time call Stark Tower”? Please tell me you didn’t go classic and draw a mustache on her, Clint?” Tony asked from behind them as they loaded back onto the city’s street.

“So… paninis?” Steve asked, turning to Clint and seemingly ignoring Stark altogether.

“Paninis,” Clint confirmed even as they had begun to walk away, leaving Tony rolling his eyes as he got back into his Audi. Clint called, “thanks again, Tony!”

“Yeah yeah, don’t go humping the Flatiron with your new-found freedom, okay? Show some dignity. YOU’RE AVENGERS, FOR CHRIST SAKES!”

“Wow. That coming from Tony,” Steve said, looking impressed. “We did good.”

**(9.5 months before PD)**

Clint thought about it too much when he was alone. His mind wandered and replayed over and over again every conversation, every look, every seemingly casual touch. It had started melding into their work lives. An inside joke during a meeting would have them both hiding their smiles behind their fists, while Nat and Sam rolled their eyes, Tony would call them out for having the attention taken away from him, and Bruce would eye everyone with confusion.

When all was said and done, on the occasional night that he had to himself, or after Steve would leave, Clint would lie in bed and stare at the ceiling, feeling warm yet drained and wondering what the fuck he was getting himself into. Popping out his hearing aids, he could still hear Steve’s boisterous laugh, and closing his eyes he could still see Steve’s body. The image of him jumping from roof to roof, laughing like a loon, sitting on the top of whatever building they ended up on, smiling up at Clint while Clint fought for his breath, only to lose it again when Steve reached over to brush a smear of dirt, brought on from their escapades, off Clint’s face. 

He’d never had this type of friendship before. One where there was touching and open affection. He’d never looked at someone he’d called a friend and felt his stomach swim with warmth, and he truly had no idea what to do with it. 

**(9 months before PD)**

When not in the gym or at work, trying to process or just straight up push down the weird miriad of feelings, Steve kept doing more and more dumb shit, and Clint just kept on following right along beside him. 

There may or may not have been an incident with a ferry boat that had landed them both in hot water with the national guard. 

Really it was Steve I’d-Do-Anything-Stupid-For-Bragging-Rights Rogers’ fault. Not Clint’s. They were having a very pleasant ferry ride back from the mayor’s office, who’d finally agreed to see them so they could state their formal apologies and grovel just a bit. It hadn’t taken too long, which was a bit of a surprise to Clint, but he suspected it had to do with Steve’s natural charisma and eyelash batting. Shit, Clint was almost accepting his apology himself before he realized he wasn’t the one Steve was talking to. But the way Steve’s lashes flared over his cheeks as he looked down at his shoes in “shame” and then the sheer sincerity behind the apology with those damn baby blues that really no one could resist, just shining with remorse… well, it had worked. 

The mayor even had laughed it off in the end, clapping both of them on their shoulders on the way out and saying, “well boys, thanks to you we’ve seen a 53% increase in her visitors. You guys were working hard for the state, and New York thanks you.”

Clint didn’t know how much of a little shit Steve was until they were halfway down the street and Steve was smirking at Clint like he’d just gotten away with murder. 

Stopping in his tracks, Clint rolled his eyes. “You didn’t mean a single word of that apology, did you?” 

“Nooooope,” Steve answered, popping the ‘p’.

“You… Christ, you’re more devious than I thought… c’mon. Let’s go home and tell Tony, it’ll be fun to watch him have an aneurysm.”

It was one of those borderline winter days, the ones that sat on the cusp of mid November, where the nights blustered chilly air and left the ground covered in frost, causing the streets to glow just a little as the sun rose. Needless to say, the wind whipping through the ferry boat on their way back to the other side of the state was relentless and left Clint shivering in his peacoat, while Steve simply wore his leather jacket and stood pressed against his side.

Clint wondered what kind of picture they made, standing together with the wind ruffling their hair and their coats, staring out at the bay. 

The air and the sound of rushing waves brought a sense of tranquility to those brave enough to stand by the railing. Within that tranquility, as the seagulls raced along the side of the boat, spearing into the water to catch the scattered crumbs of bread thrown by a small child below their deck, Clint’s mind started to wander… which was his first mistake. His second mistake was voicing his curiosity.

“I wonder which is faster,” Clint mused, still staring down at the birds disappearing and then bobbing back into the air, “you or the boat?”

A brief moment of silence was followed by a humming sound in the back of Steve’s throat. “I don’t know, lets see.” 

“Okay… NO. WAIT. WHAT?!” Startled, Clint turned just to have Steve’s leather bomber jacket and shoes pushed into his hands. “No no no no no. STEVE, DON’T YOU DA-”

Heads turned as Steve climbed over the railing of the large boat, Clint stared in horror and disbelief, having untangled his hand to try and catch the hem of Steve's shirt just two seconds too late. Without even making a splash, Steve’s body disappeared under the water, leaving Clint with a slick wave of dread coursing through his stomach for Steve’s safety.

The patrons who witnessed the debacle all sucked in a collective breath that was released eight seconds later as Steve popped out of the water a solid twenty feet in front of the boat, his arms pumping and slicing through the frigid waves. 

“You fucking idiot,” Clint groaned as he looked around frantically at the massive amount of cell phones recording the incident. Opening his own phone he started a draft email to the mayor.

Ten minutes later as the ferry finally docked, Clint pushed his way off to find a sopping wet Steve Rogers grinning from his spot on a bench. The puddle beneath him was growing in size as a serious looking man dressed in a sharp blue camo uniform with the title “US Coast Guard” written on the arm’s patch tore into him.

“I’m so sorry um… officer, this is our address,” Clint barged in, prattling off the address to the Tower. “Seriously, it was a complete misunderstanding, it was, uhh… some official Avengers business, ya know? We thought there was an, uh… alien invasion under the boat, but funnily enough it was just a bunch of, err, what's the word? The water dogs? Seals? Seals! And we urbanites barely know the difference, and Captain America The Man with The Plan,” he said through gritted teeth, punctuating the syllables in Steve’s direction, “just jumped into action without investigation.” He tugged Steve up by the hand, “but thank you so much for your understanding, we’re just gonna…” He gestured back with an armful of Steve’s clothes before turning and tugging Steve along; their fingers remained interlocked.

“You’re a fucking idiot. Are you freaking kidding me. God dammit, Steve, and people call me reckless!? What were you thinking?! Do you know how fucking cold that water is?! It’s at least 42 degrees, not to mention how filthy it is and how many dead bodies and used needles wash up on the shore along the New York and New Jersey coast line EVERY MONTH!” 

His litany of guilt spewed from him as they rounded the corner to the Tower.

“And did you even account for the fact that people have these handy little things CALLED CELL PHONES?! EVERY SINGLE PHONE WAS OUT! Do you know how much shit we’re gonna… no no… not we… this wasn’t me this time… I will not be incriminated by your acts of pure… whatever. Now you’re soaked in shit water…” 

Clint continued with his verbal abuse all the way into the Tower and as they made their way up to his apartment. 

“Can you imagine the field day the press is gonna have? You just jumped in. You could have been eaten by a goddamn shark, Steve, did you even think about the crea-… why are you laughing?! DOES THIS LOOK LIKE THE TIME FOR LAUGHING!” Clint exclaimed in abject horror. 

Steve, who had begun to noticeably shiver with lips long since tinged an ominous blue, leaned forward with his hands gripping the tops of his wet jeaned thighs, struggling for breath as his laughter grew. Each time he looked up to see Clint staring at him as if he’d grown a second head his laughter doubled, lasting all the while he was pulled into Clint’s apartment, tears streaming down his face as Clint dropped his clothes with a wet plop on his floor and walked away. It only began to die when he heard the shower turn on and Clint reemerged, his tirade apparently finished. He eyed Steve from the top of his head to the tip of his soaked socks. 

“Take your clothes off,” he said pointedly. 

Steve’s eyebrows winged up and he blinked at Clint with a long doeish stare, his lashes black and spiky against the pale skin of his cheeks. Any remaining laughter was killed on the spot. Instantly his fingers responded to the command, tugging the hem of his shirt up as Clint walked behind him and pushed him towards his master bathroom. 

“Take a hot shower and wash the scum off of you. We’re burning those clothes, by the way. Gonna catch your death. If anything was to test that serum of yours and its longevity it would be the fuckin bay water,” he grumbled, shoving Steve into the bathroom. 

“I can’t even get sick, Clint.” Rolling his eyes, Steve pulled off his shirt entirely and let it hit the floor with a wet splat that had Clint cringing, even as his eyes briefly detoured over the hardened muscles of Steve’s torso.

Of course he had seen Steve nearly naked, probably a hundred times. However, there was a difference between standing in a parking garage getting ready for a battle and watching an enhanced superhuman with goosebumps riding over their skin, nipples hardened by the frigid wetness, with their pupils slightly dilated staring back at you in a steamy bathroom.

Every thought came to a stand-still, except for the sudden urge to strip down and join him. But that… that would be one of his worst ideas. Worse than climbing up the Statue of Liberty or jumping into the bay. Gulping, Clint quickly averted his eyes. Pointedly turning his back on the image of Steve working open the button of his jeans, and said, “stay in there until your lips aren’t blue anymore.”

  
He thought he heard a quiet response sounding suspiciously like a “yes, sir.” But that might have just been his brain telling him what he wanted to hear. 

When Steve got out of the shower, towel slung around his waist, he walked into Clint’s room to find a pair of his own sweatpants, boxers, and sweater neatly folded on the bed, with a pair of woolen socks that he only wore when they went on missions to Russia tucked neatly on top.

“Was all of this really necessary?” he asked Clint as he made his way to the kitchen, pulling the sweater over his head and giving Clint one last view of every muscle within his torso flexing. Steve sniffed curiously at the air like Lucky would, and then headed over to peak over Clint’s shoulder at the pot Clint was stirring. “Is that chicken and dumplings?” he asked.

“Yes, it was necessary,” Clint said, desperately trying to ignore that Steve’s chest was pressed against his back, making it very hard to think and stir at the same time. “And Pepper, uh… supplies me with leftovers sometimes… because I have a tendency to never cook for myself.”

“Well that’s nice of her,” Steve commented, moving to the counter next to the stove. Before he could boost his body up onto the marble top, Clint made a weird noise in his throat, like one would make at a puppy who was about to piddle on the rug.

“Don’t you dare. Go sit on the couch,” Clint pointed with his spoon towards the living room, dripping remnants along the wooden floor, “wrap up in one of the blankets I pulled out.”

“Oh, c’mon, Clint…” Steve grumbled, although he couldn’t quite hide his smile.

“Don’t ‘c’mon Clint’ me. You’re the idiot who just swam through frigid waters. Go get warm. I’ll be damned if you die of pneumonia on my watch. Go!” 

Rolling his eyes Steve marched out of the kitchen and to the couch, muttering under his breath the entire way.

“It’s rude to whisper around a deaf person!” Clint added, smiling to himself as he pulled down bowls and began to ladle the soup. 

“I said I can’t get sick, and you’re certainly bossy for someone who has to be reminded to eat normal food by his boss’ wife,” Steve shouted back.

“But look who listened so well,” Clint commented as he came around the corner with two bowls of soup to find Steve swaddled in a giant fluffy violently-purple blanket.

“I feel ridiculous,” Steve replied, already digging into the soup.

“But warm.”

Steve made a noncommittal sound and continued to eat while Clint turned on an episode of Dog Cops, which caused Steve to almost snort a dumpling out his nose.

“That’s punishment for making fun of a good show,” Clint commented, nudging his knee against Steve’s while he coughed.

With their bellies full of soup and their empty bowls sitting on the table in front of them, Clint leaned back into the couch, kicking off his own shoes and putting his sock-covered feet next to the discarded bowls.

A movement to his right had him glancing over as Steve wedged himself under Clint’s arm; looking down, Clint gave him a questioning stare. 

Steve shrugged, eyes not leaving the T.V. as he curled his legs to the side and settled his forehead in his usual spot along the crook of Clint’s neck. “I’m still cold,” he explained.

“Okay,” Clint said, letting his hand fall over Steve’s shoulder as he felt him relax under the touch.

Just as they had settled into the episode JARVIS’ voice rang out, startling Steve enough to flinch and look up at Clint. “Sirs. Sir has a message for you if you’ll be so obliged to listen.”   


Cringing, Clint bit his lip. “Go ahead, Jeeves.”

A life size hologram of Tony appeared in the middle of the living room; he looked vaguely annoyed as he pulled off his glasses and unbuttoned his collar. 

“Just a friendly reminder, Steve, wet T-shirt contests are held for charity purposes, you can't just let people post your resume pics online all willy-nilly, you gotta charge for ‘em, and we really need to discuss finding you shirts that are not a size s-medium. Your C-cups are practically blooming according to Buzzfeed AND Vanity fair! Also, Clint,” he shifted his attention, brows briefly quirking at the arm slung over Steve’s shoulders, “congrats on your one remaining brain cell - do you two know that that water is so full of crap only sea-brined-Steve could get away with marinating in it without turning into a glow-stick? Would severely damage his usefulness on night-ops. Anyway, Pepper is yelling at me for yelling at the two of you. Way to make it into the news cycle… again. If this is gonna be a thing, can you make sure to tell our PR people before you guys do your next round of stupid shit? Yeah I know, I’m coming, Pep. Cute snuggie, Steve.”

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like the idea of this fic came to me in a non-COVID related fever dream.
> 
> Sooooo, how do we feel?
> 
> Due to the size of these chapters I'll be posting every 2 weeks. I have about 81k written now, and 9 chapters thus far. I'm in the process of writing the final chapter. This _will_ be a series, so gird those sexy loins of yours! <3 
> 
> Come see me on [Tumblr](https://love-ha-fge.tumblr.com/)!


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